Please stop....

Each strike of the keys pounds deep within my soul, the noise reverberating through my head like a jack hammer. I sit very still in a vain attempt to prevent the gentle waves of nausea from once again washing over me. I sip gently on my Dr. Pepper. I don’t quite understand what happened. An innocent Sunday afternoon turned decedent. Sipping bellinis, suddenly a change of location is suggested; hours later I am dancing in the middle of a table with a group of gay men. A lone man stands on the floor shouting up dance instructions, in a vain attempt to make me look hot. I sit here wearily trying to recall the moment when it spiraled out of control, the "fuck-it" moment. I mentally run over the checklist of things that usually cause such an incident, shots – no; wild crowd (my “shot” friends) – no; bad day due to work, love, life – no; I recall nothing. Perhaps it was the peaches. I knew there was a reason that I hated them.